Good Enough (working title)
by Burn
Summary: Dorothy and Quatre's relationship isn't what it seems to be. What's the problem, and what's going to happen about it? [Ongoing]
1. Good Enough

Disclaimer: Don't own it.  
Warnings: Angst, Spouse Abuse, Yaoi in future parts (Heterosexual for now).  
Author Notes: I'm not sure what I think of this fic. It's about Dorothy and Quatre and their relationship. I personally think this is what it might really be like, considering Dorothy's tendency to stab things and Quatre's peace-making nature. And I also believe that Quatre belongs with a certain someone else, so I had to stick it in here. ^^ So it's kind of a long, angsty, break-up-and-rebuild-with-someone-new-fic.  
  
*Dedication*: I'd like to dedicate this to Ms. Kell-Chan, Ms. Sara-Neko, and Ms. Kim. *smiles* Thanks to all of you; you've really helped me along with my writing. Your support has kept me going, and you're always very helpful to me. ^_^  
  
Additional Author Notes: I'll try to post the next part as soon as it's written. ^_^ And ... sorry for the long introduction. Ack!  
  
Good Enough  
(working title)  
by: Burn  
  


***  


  
Dull. Pale, beautiful aqua, but still dull. Flat. Lifeless. Disgusting to his mind.   
  
The blue-green eyes had lost all of their shimmer, all of their innocent sheen, and the healing scrapes and bruises marring the pale skin spoke volumes as to the reason why. It was hard to believe that those eyes had once held anything other than the quiet, smothering melancholy they held now. A tragedy, it was, that the life in those eyes had been lost to something so stupid as it had.   
  
_Dorothy._  
  
The melancholy in aqua eyes increased, and mixed emotions arose with the thought of that name. He was hurt, angry, confused, betrayed, sad, untrusting and yet wanting so much to trust. He was in love.   
  
But it hurt to love her.   
  
A sigh escaped the small lips below the dull, beautiful eyes and a slim hand raked through blonde bangs. He watched his reflection in the mirror; soul weary expression, tired eyes, wistful smile. The bangs fell in place nicely, concealing enough bruises and scrapes to change the appearance to his liking. He could always lie about the injuries. Fell down the stairs. Walked into a wall. Met a pissy cat.   
  
A small, sad smile crossed his face; almost laughed. Not quite.   
  
A pissy cat. Dorothy was steadily growing to resemble that more than a human being every time her heart pumped blood through her body, every time she breathed. She was sleek; crafty, with a subtle grace that never failed to move his heart, but she had little self-control, and when something went wrong, everyone was at fault.   
  
The smile, tiny though it was, left his lips. Everyone was always at fault, but not everyone was always around to receive the punishment. He frowned, a bitter light entering his eyes as he touched a particularly painful looking bruise on his forehead.   
  
Dorothy usually took out all her frustrations on him.   
  
He sighed, brushed a hand through his bangs again, took another look in the mirror. Not perfect; not sweet, innocent like he used to be, but good enough. It was about the only thing that could be good enough anymore.   
  
He carefully, timidly opened the bathroom door. The soft even tones of Dorothy's breathing on the bed made it obvious to him that she was asleep, and he was intent on keeping it that way. He didn't need to raise any more suspicions at work; he was already subject to a barrage of questions every morning when he entered the building.   
  
"Oh, Mr. Winner! What happened?"   
  
"Mr. Winner, where'd you get that bruise?"   
  
"How'd you do **that,** Mr. Winner?"   
  
It was the same thing every day, and was becoming more and more dreaded with each encounter. It gave him headaches.   
  
Remembering this, he swerved and ducked back inside the bathroom. He thought: put off leaving a little longer. He reached into the medicine cabinet, past the anti-depressants and well-used first aid kit to the pain-killers, stuffing them in his shirt pocket. Great. Real inconspicuous.   
Sarcasm.   
  
He sighed, letting the stuffy air out of his lungs, and opted to put the bottle in his pants pocket instead. He nodded, satisfied, and patted the bottle underneath the khaki material there. Good enough.   
  
He almost smirked, bitterly. Good enough. Hmph.   
  
Like hell it was.   
  
He turned from the medicine cabinet. What was really good enough anymore? He shook his head, casting another look into the reflection of the small bathroom mirror. Dead eyes. Nothing, really.   
  
Medicine pocketed securely, he left the bathroom again, holding his breath as he slipped past Dorothy, into the hallway. Careful, careful, he reminded himself. Don't want to wake her up. He swept around the corner, into the kitchen and to the back door; suddenly stopped for a moment, looked behind him with shining aqua eyes to the pictures taped to the refrigerator.   
He thought: good times. I wonder what ever happened to that? The pictures were a sweet memory to him, but they were depressingly out of reach now.   
  
Dorothy with her head resting against his shoulder, his arms held loosely about her waist. Both of them smiling.   
  
Him on his own, but with a sparkle in his eye foreign to him now. A genuine smile. No bruises.   
  
A date. Dorothy in a lovely black gown, hair loose and billowy around her frame. Smiling. No trace of malevolence detectable in her expression.   
  
The shining in his eyes turned to tears, and a little streak of liquid crystal slid down his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, tearing his eyes from the photographs. Good times, he thought again. Gone, though.   
  
He opened the door, stepping out onto the door mat before heading down the concrete walkway to his car; carefully didn't look back. He pulled open the car door and slid into the driver's seat, ignoring the lurch and grinding gears when he drove away, forgetting the clutch in his eagerness to get away. Didn't look back; never looked back.   
  
He didn't see the pale blue-gray eyes watching him through a white-paned window, angry and burning.   
  
_Dorothy.  
  
_

***


	2. Work As Always

Disclaimer: Don't own it.  
Warnings: Angst, Spouse Abuse, Future yaoi. *Strong language* appears in this chapter.  
Author notes: ^_^; Wow, this took a long time to get up. Heh heh, oops. I've got the next part written already. ^_^ I'll post it soon. Oh, and did I warn you...? This fic is a little OOC for Quatre. But hey, the way I figure it, it's six years since Endless Waltz and he's twenty-two now -- his personality could have changed since then, and I'll interperet it as I damn well please! So there!  
  
Good Enough  
(working title)  
by: Burn_  
_

  
***  


Work was the same as always.  
  
Fake smile and cheer. Pretend to be happy. Offer a wave and a meaningless explanation for all the pain.  
  
It was all so ridiculous. Since when had he grown so bitter? It didn't used to be like this. It wasn't always simulated sunshine and laughter. It was real, once upon a time in a fairy tale somewhere far away...  
  
_Trowa_.  
  
The name came unbidden into his mind.  
  
It was all just so fucking ridiculous! He thought: I'm not supposed to be like this! His insides tore and his mind turned to mush and slapped against the barriers of his skull. _I'm not, I'm not, I'm not_...  
  
_Since when am I so bitter?_  
  
Ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous. He didn't have time to think about false happiness or what could have been or perhaps sharing a genuine smile with someone equally genuine and special. He was the only son, the only heir of an important family, and he had to carry on the family name... Had to.  
  
He had to do so many things. It was ... it was ...  
  
It's was all just so** fucking ridiculous**.  
  
He screamed silently inside he depths of his soul, so loud and long and heartfelt, but still unheard.    
  
It wasn't supposed to be this way.  
  
He let his body slump into his chair, his shoulders shaking as he choked on the invisible sobs he always tried to put behind him. His mushy brains sloshed inside his skull.  
  
_Why can't it stop..._  
  
He thought desperately, so desperately: I can't do this! I can't be what they want me to! But I have so much to do, so much responsibility. There's so much riding on these thin shoulders...  
  
Then another thought -- a quote floating from somewhere in the back of his mind. He mumbled it into the stuffy office air, watching helplessly as all the stress and pain and unhappiness in his life pressed against their restraints, waiting, just waiting to explode.  
  
"The best way to avoid responsibilities is to say, I've got responsibilities."  
  
It was an old quote from an old book, written by some Richard fellow, or something along those lines. Rather good book, actually. Something about Messiahs... not exactly up his alley, but amusing nonetheless. It calmed him. He fished out another quote from somewhere in the messy depths of his mind.  
  
"... Long neglect has worn away half the sweet enchanting smile. Time has turned the bloom to grey, mould and damp the face defile..."  
  
Brontë. Good poet. He straightened in his chair, pausing to gather the next verse to mind, then recited it quietly to himself.  
  
"But that lock of silky hair, still beneath the picture twined, tells what once those features were, paints their image on the mind."  
  
The last remnants of stress faded from his veins, and he smoothed a fold of wrinkle away from his pants. A sigh, and he looked towards the large wooden door leading into his office. It was surprising no one had asked about his injuries yet that day. He was grateful.  
  
And if they asked later on that day…  
  
Well, it wasn't like one more lie would matter. He was too far gone to ever be saved, anyway. He'd blown up an entire colony, countless soldiers, and even came close to killing his best friend – and **what** happened?  
  
Nothing.  
  
_Repent and thou shalt be saved_, he recalled one of Duo's old bibles saying.  
  
Well, what did you do if no one asked you to repent? What did you do if people knew all the things you did and people you killed, and called you a **hero** for it? What did you do if you almost killed your best friend and he **forgave **you, then **saved** you from the same horrible fate you almost caused him?  
  
How did you repent **then**?  
  
_Dorothy_.  
  
His slushy brains did a full belly flop.  
  
_Dorothy_.  
  
She was the whole reason he could go on with his life. She made him feel pain for the chaos he made. She repented **for** him. She was the difference in his crazy world. A black, shiny thing that he didn't know whether to love or hate...  
  
But still he didn't, he couldn't feel complete. He was missing something.  
  
_Trowa..._  
  
Why had he forgiven him so easily? He'd come close to killing something so precious to him ... and that precious thing had shrugged it off like they were discussing the weather.  
  
_I don't want to lose any more precious things._  
  
Small, pale hands clutched at the material of his shirt, desperately. _Get a hold of yourself, Quatre,_ he scolded. _You can do this. It'll go away in time._  
  
So he squared small shoulders, lifted his chin into the air, and turned back to the previously ignored papers on his desk. Read, sign, read, sign. That was all to do for the day, then leave. Tomorrow he'd be back for more self-inflicted torture, and he'd again return to his shiny black thing ... his Dorothy. His savior.  
  
Another quote, this time from one of Duo's old songs.  
  
"Tell me now, who's my savin' one?"  
  
Duo always had listened to morbid stuff. He smirked. "Jesus or a gun…?"  
  
He chuckled to himself, pulling a paper from the impressive stack on his desk.  
  
Sincewhen had he grown so bitter, anyway?  
  


***  
  



	3. Just The Same

Disclaimer: Don't own it.  
Warnings: Angst, Spouse Abuse, Future Yaoi, Strong Language.  
Author Notes: ^_^ Heero appears in this chapter. Yay! Thanks still to all my wonderful friends. *winks* Love you all! (Wow, this introduction is really short. ^_~ I think it's a new record for me!)  
  
Good Enough  
(working title)  
by: Burn  


  
***  


He returned to an empty house.  
  
The photos on the fridge were still there for him when he walked through the door, standing as a silent reminder for what once was. He stopped briefly, as he did almost every day, to look at them. He brushed his fingers lightly over one or two, cursing himself when tears formed in the corner of his tired blue eyes.  
  
Six years.  
  
It had been six years since that time, the last time he'd been really, truly happy. Now and again he wondered if he could ever be that way again, but he eventually remembered the guilt and incomplete penance. He had to give up part of his livelihood for the livelihood of all the others that had been lost. It was only fair.  
  
He lowered his eyes to the ground, leaning against the side of the refrigerator for support as his mind reeled. _Never again_. He couldn't ever be that happy again – wouldn't let himself ruin his progress thus far.  He had to take the pain for all the others he'd hurt.  
  
The colonies, soldiers, innocents…  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, clenching a fist.  
  
_Trowa.  
_  
An unexpected voice pulled him from the shadows of his mind.  
  
"It's been a long time, hasn't it?"  
  
He recognized the voice immediately. Heero. He dropped in from time to time, staying for a day or sometimes a week depending on the occasion. But eventually he always left, returning to either his wandering or Relena. Quatre turned his head from the memories hanging from magnets on the fridge, looking with a soul weary expression at Heero. He nodded, once.  
  
"Yes. It has."  
  
Heero's medium footsteps sounded impossibly loud against the tiled kitchen floor as he walked closer, never taking his eyes from the exhausted, dead aqua eyes staring at him with hidden pain. They echoed in Quatre's ears, acting as murder on his stress-loaded brain. But the blue eyes regarded him steadily, always with that aching, soul deep pain.  
  
"How've you been, Heero?" Always the polite one, he was. Some things never changed.  
  
"Fine."  
  
A small, bitter smirk formed on small lips just before they twisted around equally bitter words.   
  
"It's nice to know one of us is."  
  
Heero seemed to ignore this remark, instead brushing a fingertip over the surface of one of the pictures he'd earlier been studying. "She looked different, back then."  
  
A nod. "We all did."  
  
"No." Heero shook his head, though his hand did not stray from the photo. "Not all of us." He turned to look Quatre pointedly in the eyes. "You're still just the same."  
  
Surprise flared briefly in his features, a defensive look taking its place directly after. "No, Heero, I think you're mistaken," he started, but Heero narrowed his eyes.  
  
"No," he said, sternly. "You're just the same."  
  
He pulled the photograph he'd been fingering from its place on the fridge. He held it next to Quatre's face, his eyes flickering between the two. Comparing.  
  
"Just the same," he repeated. "Just a little older. More tired. But you're still the same person." He smirked, a small tug at the corner of his lips as he shook his head. "Still blaming yourself for everything." He pressed the picture into Quatre's small hand. "Look at that picture again, Quatre, and then tell me you're not still the same person."  
  
Then he left the room.  
  
Quatre stared after him for a few minutes, clutching the picture tightly within his tiny grasp. He eventually tore his gaze away, transferring it to the photos remaining on the fridge. Dorothy, young and beautiful beckoned to him. He looked back down at the picture in his hands, his resolve swaying.  
  
He had been sixteen when it was taken, young and weighed down by the deaths of thousands. A guilty conscience, but good intentions.  
  
_Good intentions don't get you anywhere,_ he reminded himself sullenly.  
  
He studied the picture of a younger, happier him, held it in his hands. Admired it. He could see Heero watching him from the doorway.  
  
He ripped it in half, let the pieces drop, watched them flutter to the floor. He frowned, raising his eyes to meet Heero's. He spoke softly.  
  
"It **was** my fault. But I'm going to make up for it."  
  
"How?"  
  
Quatre's mind froze. He didn't have an answer for that.  
  
"I don't know," he said slowly. Deliberately. "But I'm going to. This I promise you."  
  
He looked back down to the ripped picture on the tiled floor. Straight down the center. He'd been ripped apart  
  
A smirk. _Not much different than I am now._ "I'll fix it the only way I know how."  
  
"What about Trowa?"  
  
He blinked. "… Trowa?"  
  
"Don't play ignorant, Quatre." The voice was stern. His mind swerved.  
  
_It had been real, once upon a time in a fairy tale somewhere far away.  
_  
_ He'd been happy, once…  
_  
"What about him?"  
  
Heero's eyes narrowed. "How are you going to fix things with Trowa?"  
  
Quietly. "I can't."  
   
A disgusted, almost exasperated sigh. "Quatre."  
   
"What?"  
   
"Look at me."  
   
No answer. Refused to do it.  
   
"…No."  
   
A rough hand grabbed his chin, turned it to look at him. Burning Prussian eyes. He swallowed. "What do you want me to say, Heero? I can't do anything about Trowa."  
   
Heero's eyes hardened. "Let him forgive you."  
   
The hand released his chin, and Heero walked away.  
   


***  
  



	4. Cry

Disclaimer: Don't own it.  
Warnings: Angst, Spouse Abuse, Future Yaoi, Language ... but not in this chapter. ^_^ Somewhat Dorothy-Sympathetic.  
Author Notes: ^_^ We're finally discovering some of Dorothy's motives in this part! Yay! Damn, these chapters are short, though. ... *smirk* But that doesn't mean I'll make them longer. Hah! Do you realize that this fic isn't ANYWHERE near being halfway done? Or even half of halfway? Heh, that's right. This is gonna be kinda long. Oh, and for those of you that care ... ^_^ Once I finish this, I'll go work on the sequel for Biased. Rest assured, it will have a real ending. Heh. Yay. ... Okay, now onto the story.  
  
Good Enough  
(working title)  
by: Burn  


  
***  


Dorothy didn't come home that night.  
  
He slept alone in the bed with lonely moonlight floating in through the large window. Clutching the bed sheets to his chest, he was left to attempt to sort out the tired fragments of his mind.  
  
_Let him forgive you, Quatre.  
_  
No, couldn't do that. It wasn't even an option. It might have been, once. Not anymore.  
  
_Once…  
_  
Pale blue eyes squeezed shut.  
  
_He'd been happy, once.  
_  
He remembered black night skies with pinprick diamond stars, and a slender girl standing beneath it all with him. Velvet darkness, and then …  
  
A beautiful smile.  
  
_"Have you ever been lonely, Quatre?"  
  
Confused silence, then, hesitantly,  
  
"Haven't we all?"  
  
A sharp laugh.  
  
"No. I mean, have you ever been really, truly lonely?" The girl's tone turned wistful, and the pale blue-gray gaze traveled from the stars to the aqua eyes watching her. "As if there's not a single soul out there willing or wanting to accept you for who you are..."  
  
Shocked silence.  
  
"Dorothy..."  
  
_He opened his eyes wide, drawing in a shaky breath. He hated that memory. He knew just what happened next ...  
  
He told her that **he** would always accept her, **he** would always want her, and in his memories she always looked at him with this sad, knowing expression, and shook her head.  
  
_"No. There's just not enough room for me."_  
  
Then she would take his hand into hers, staring into his eyes pointedly.  
  
_"But I'll help you, Quatre, as you have helped me. I will show you your true self, as you showed me my kindness."_  
  
He sighed.  
  
A woman that couldn't cry.  


  


A cricket chirped outside his window. He shook his head to clear it of its thoughts, sighed, turned over onto his side. It was damn near impossible to sleep tonight with the empty space next to him. A floor board creaked somewhere in the house, and he knew Heero was still awake. Light flooded the hallway and creeped in from underneath his doorway.  
  
He closed his eyes again, turning his head away from the intrusion. He was tired. He wanted to sleep. But he couldn't.  
  
An annoyed sigh, followed by a slightly amused smirk.  
  
A woman that couldn't cry. Hmph.  
  


***


	5. Hate

Disclaimer: Don't own it.   
Warnings: Angst, Spouse Abuse, Future Yaoi, Strong Language. There's some actual violence in this part. o.o  
Author Notes: ^_^ I'm so proud of myself! I'm getting this out a lot faster than I originally planned/hoped. Cool, eh? Well, anyway ^_^ In this part the story finally gets started. Actually o.o The next chapter is where I first planned to start this story @_@ Aieeee... it would have saved me some time if I had. Wow, have you guys noticed how much my attitude in these notes have changed since I first started posting on FF.net? Geez. Talk about cold and detached o.x But anyway, this goes out to Ms. Kell-Chan, Ms. Sara-Neko, Ms. Mo, and Ms. Kim as usual ^_^ I love you all! Muaha! *blows kisses*  
Additional Author Notes (pretty much for the aforementioned people): If you want an explanation for my more-than-casual behavior, it's late. *grins* I think Ms. Mo and Ms. Kim have an idea what I'm talking about here ... Muahaha! But now this introduction is getting waaaaay too long, and I'm sure none of you wanna read it ^^; So, on to the fic!  
  
Good Enough  
(working title)  
by: Burn  


  
***  
  


Quatre left for work the next morning as always. Heero was gone when he did. He and his coworkers were all relieved that his face boasted no new bruises, but he went through work feeling more melancholy than he had in a long while. He wasn't sure what to except when he returned home later that day.  
  
His coworkers seemed to notice this, and his secretary eventually knocked on his door meekly, asking to if he wanted to talk. He shook his head, didn't look up from the document he was reviewing. He didn't need their sympathy. She eventually got the hint and backed out the way she came.  
  
He skipped lunch again that day. He was wasting away both mentally and physically. His ribs poked out from underneath his pale skin, and the rest of his body was painfully thin. He hardly ate anymore. Each day he tried so hard to cleanse, but he kept drowning in his pain along the way.  
  
Each day he died a little more and cared a little less.  
  
When he finally came home that day, he was surprised to find a light on in the kitchen. His first thought was: Dorothy's home. His face fell but his heart swelled. This part was always the hardest.  
  
_A shiny black thing he didn't know whether to love or hate..._  
  
He sighed, opened the back door. Held his breath.  
  
She was sitting at the kitchen table in one of the wooden chairs around it, holding the torn picture between slender fingers. Her pale eyes were looking at the picture, but they were seeing something far beyond her plane of existence. He looked at her for a while, regretful but not, and remained that way for quite some time. Then she spoke.  
  
Unexpected.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me Heero was coming?"  
  
He swallowed, closing the door behind him, took a seat next to her. How had she known Heero was here? He was gone, wasn't he? She continued to stare off into a place he couldn't begin to imagine.  
  
"I didn't know."  
  
She smirked, raising an elegant dark eyebrow in question. Her eyes narrowed, but didn't waver. "You didn't know," she echoed. Mocking. "Well, then perhaps you shouldn't have let him stay."  
  
"Dorothy, you weren't even here, I didn't think ..." his words trailed off and he thought, puzzled: she wasn't even here. Where **had** she been, anyway? He cleared his throat, deciding to vocalize his concerns.  
  
"That reminds me -- where **were** you last night?"  
  
Her eyes finally flickered over to his, hating. Crafty. Malicious. He shuddered.  
  
She scowled. "Out."  
  
A flutter of worry. "Out doing what?"  
  
Annoyance. She looked back down at the pieces of the picture she still held in her hands, studied it for a moment, then dropped them. Smiled and looked back at him.  
  
"It's none of your concern," she said, then rose from her chair and moved to the refrigerator, pulling off the picture of the two of them together. Her skirts swished noisily with the movement. She ripped that picture in two, too, and let the pieces fall and sway in the air back and forth, back and forth. They landed on top of the other picture.  
  
She looked back up at him, a hint of sadness and a tinge of regret lacing in with anger and hate. "I promised you so long ago, Quatre. Don't make this difficult."  
  
_"Have you ever been lonely, Quatre?"_  
  
He winced, inwardly. "What do you mean?"  
  
_"But I'll help you, Quatre, as you have helped me...."  
  
_He felt like crying. It wasn't supposed to be this way. He was supposed to make up for all the pain he'd dealt, not cause more.... His breath caught in his throat and his eyes misted, clouded over. It wasn't fair.  
  
_Fucking ridiculous_.  
  
"You know exactly what I'm talking about."  
  
Shocked. "Dorothy...."  
  
"Don't plead ignorance with me." Firm. Angry.  
  
"Dorothy, I don't know what you...."  
  
"God damn you, Quatre Raberba Winner, **don't **play stupid!"  
  
The sound of a slap bounced against the kitchen walls and echoed in the rest of the house. It rang in Quatre's ears for several moments before he could react, and by then, it was too late. Fire burned in Dorothy's eyes. She hit him again.  
  
"I hate how kind you are, and how I can never be as fucking kind as you are."  
  
Her voice was calm, but her attack wasn't. She punched him in the stomach. He doubled over, closed his eyes. Dropped to his knees.  
  
"Dorothy, please...."  
  
She kicked him, scowled at him from underneath dark eyebrows and pretty blonde hair. She had such nice eyes, but they were so angry now.... He fell onto his side, curling. Another kick. He winced. It hurt.  
  
"Shut up," she said, still calm. There was a crack when she kicked him again. He breathed in sharply, curling tighter around his body. His ribs hurt, and his vision swam in little black dots of pain.  
  
He coughed, and was a little unnerved to see crimson spatter on the clean tiled floor. Dorothy stopped hurting him then, backed away. Ran. He was grateful. He closed his eyes and didn't open them again for a long time.  
  
And alone in the dark corner of her bedroom, Dorothy Catalonia cried.  
  
"And I **hate** how I can never really hate you...."  
  


***  



End file.
